Sad Cypress Read online

  “So what follows—if a man stood here watching, and if he afterwards went to that window and climbed in and tampered with the sandwiches? What did he think and believe? He thought, he must have thought, that the sandwiches were to be eaten by Elinor Carlisle herself….”

  Thirteen

  Poirot knocked at the door of Nurse Hopkins’ cottage. She opened it to him with her mouth full of Bath bun.

  She said sharply:

  “Well, Mr. Poirot, what do you want now?”

  “I may enter?”

  Somewhat grudgingly Nurse Hopkins drew back and Poirot was permitted to cross the threshold. Nurse Hopkins was hospitable with the teapot, and a minute later Poirot was regarding with some dismay a cup of inky beverage.

  “Just made—nice and strong!” said Nurse Hopkins.

  Poirot stirred his tea cautiously and took one heroic sip.

  He said:

  “Have you any idea why I have come here?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure, until you tell me. I don’t profess to be a mind reader.”

  “I have come to ask you for the truth.”

  Nurse Hopkins uprose in wrath.

  “And what’s the meaning of that, I should like to know? A truthful woman I’ve always been. Not one to shield myself in any way. I spoke up about that missing tube of morphine at the inquest when many a one in my place would have sat tight and said nothing. For well enough did I know that I should get censured for carelessness in leaving my case about; and, after all, it’s a thing might happen to anybody! I was blamed for that—and it won’t do me any good in my profession, I can tell you. But that didn’t make any difference to me! I knew something that had a bearing on the case, and so I spoke out. And I’ll thank you, Mr. Poirot, to keep any nasty insinuations to yourself! There’s not a thing about Mary Gerrard’s death that I haven’t been open and aboveboard as daylight about, and if you think differently, I’d be obliged if you’d give chapter and verse for it! I’ve concealed nothing—nothing at all! And I’m prepared to take the oath and stand up in court and say so.”

  Poirot did not attempt to interrupt. He knew only too well the technique of dealing with an angry woman. He allowed Nurse Hopkins to flare up and simmer down. Then he spoke—quietly and mildly.

  He said:

  “I did not suggest that there is anything about the crime which you have not told.”

  “Then what did you suggest, I’d like to know?”

  “I asked you to tell the truth—not about the death, but about the life of Mary Gerrard.”

  “Oh!” Nurse Hopkins seemed momentarily taken aback. She said, “So that’s what you’re getting at? But it’s got nothing to do with the murder.”

  “I did not say that it had, I said that you were withholding knowledge concerning her.”

  “Why shouldn’t I—if it’s nothing to do with the crime?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why should you?”

  Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said:

  “Because it’s common decency! They’re all dead now—everyone concerned. And it’s no business of anyone else’s!”

  “If it is only surmise—perhaps not. But if you have actual knowledge, that is different.”

  Nurse Hopkins said slowly:

  “I don’t know exactly what you mean….”

  Poirot said:

  “I will help you. I have had hints from Nurse O’Brien and I have had a long conversation with Mrs. Slattery, who has a very good memory for events that happened over twenty years ago. I will tell you exactly what I have learned. Well, over twenty years ago there was a love affair between two people. One of them was Mrs. Welman, who had been a widow for some years and who was a woman capable of a deep and passionate love. The other party was Sir Lewis Rycroft, who had the great misfortune to have a wife who was hopelessly insane. The law in those days gave no promise of relief by divorce, and Lady Rycroft, whose physical health was excellent, might live to be ninety. The liaison between those two people was, I think, guessed at, but they were both discreet and careful to keep up appearances. Then Sir Lewis Rycroft was killed in action.”

  “Well?” said Nurse Hopkins.

  “I suggest,” said Poirot, “that there was a child born after his death, and that that child was Mary Gerrard.”

  Nurse Hopkins said:

  “You seem to know all about it!”

  Poirot said:

  “That is what I think. But it is possible that you have got definite proof that that is so.”

  Nurse Hopkins sat silent a minute or two, frowning, then abruptly she rose, went across the room, opened a drawer and took out an envelope. She brought it across to Poirot.

  She said:

  “I’ll tell you how this came into my hands. Mind, I’d had my suspicions. The way Mrs. Welman looked at the girl, for one thing, and then hearing the gossip on top of it. And old Gerrard told me when he was ill that Mary wasn’t his daughter.

  “Well, after Mary died I finished clearing up the Lodge, and in a drawer amongst some of the old man’s things I came across this letter. You see what’s written on it.”

  Poirot read the superscription written in faded ink:

  “For Mary—to be sent to her after my death.”

  Poirot said:

  “This writing is not recent?”

  “It wasn’t Gerrard who wrote that,” explained Nurse Hopkins. “It was Mary’s mother, who died fourteen years ago. She meant this for the girl, but the old man kept it among his things and so she never saw it—and I’m thankful she didn’t! She was able to hold up her head to the end, and she’d no cause to feel ashamed.”

  She paused and then said:

  “Well, it was sealed up, but when I found it I’ll admit to you that I opened it and read it then and there, which I dare say I should not have done. But Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside it and I didn’t see that it was any concern of anyone else’s. All the same, I haven’t liked to destroy it, because I didn’t feel somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, you’d better read it yourself.”

  Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small angular writing:

  This is the truth I’ve written down here in case it should ever be needed. I was lady’s maid to Mrs. Welman at Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble, and she stood by me and took me back into her service when it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldn’t marry, because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse, poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs. Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland and took me with her. The child was born there—at Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and live at the Lodge and he should think that the baby was mine. If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs. Welman should be interested in the child and she’d see to educating her and giving her a place in the world. She thought it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs. Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I would have helped her without that. I’ve been quite happy with Bob, but he never took to Mary. I’ve held my tongue and never said anything to anybody, but I think it’s right in case I die that I should put this down in black and white.

  Eliza Gerrard (born Eliza Riley)

  Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter again.

  Nurse Hopkins said anxiously:

  “What are you going to do about it? They’re all dead now! It’s no good raking up these things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts; there’s never been anything said against her. All this old scandal—it would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard? Let the dead rest in peace in their graves, that’s what I say.”


  Poirot said:

  “One has to consider the living.”

  Nurse Hopkins said:

  “But this has got nothing to do with the murder.”

  Hercule Poirot said gravely:

  “It may have a great deal to do with it.”

  He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her mouth open, staring after him.

  He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round.

  It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his cap round and round in his hands.

  “Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?”

  Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp.

  “Certainly. What is it?”

  Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment:

  “It’s about that car.”

  “The car that was outside the back gate that morning?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasn’t his car—but it was, sir.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Yes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I noticed it particular—MSS 2022. You see, we know it in the village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! I’m quite sure of it, sir.”

  Poirot said with a faint smile:

  “But Dr. Lord says he was over at Withenbury that morning.”

  Horlick said miserably:

  “Yes, sir. I heard him. But it was his car, sir… I’ll take my oath on that.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “Thank you, Horlick, that’s just exactly what you may have to do….”

  PART III

  One

  Was it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning, as though with fever, and immediately after she shivered.

  She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counsel’s speech. She had gone back to the past—gone slowly through the whole business again, from the day when that miserable letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer had said with horrible fluency:

  “You are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.”

  Horrible, frightening fluency… She felt caught up in a smooth-running, well-oiled machine—inhuman, passionless.

  And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open glare of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloating….

  Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept their eyes studiously turned away… She thought: “It’s because—soon—they know what they’re going to say….”

  II

  Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lord—that freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly professional. His answers came monotonously: He had been summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia poisoning in one of its less common forms—the “foudroyante” variety.

  Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine.

  “You were the late Mrs. Welman’s regular medical attendant?”

  “I was.”

  “During your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?”

  “Several times.”

  “What would you say was the manner of the accused to Mary Gerrard?”

  “Perfectly pleasant and natural.”

  Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight disdainful smile:

  “You never saw any signs of this ‘jealous hatred’ we have heard so much about?”

  Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly:

  “No.”

  Elinor thought:

  “But he did—he did… He told a lie for me there… He knew…”

  Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia poisoning of the “foudroyante” variety. Would he kindly explain that term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might occur in several different ways. The most common was a period of intense excitement followed by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted. Another not so common form had been named by the French, “foudroyante.” In these cases deep sleep supervened in a very short time—about ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes were usually dilated….

  III

  The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been some hours of expert medical testimony.

  Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents: Bread, fish paste, tea, presence of morphia…more learned terms and various decimal points. Amount taken by the deceased estimated to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain.

  Sir Edwin rose, still bland.

  “I should like to get it quite clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter, fish paste, tea and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?”

  “None.”

  “That is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches and tea for some considerable time?”

  “That is so.”

  “Was there anything to show in what particular vehicle the morphia had been administered?”

  “I don’t quite understand.”

  “I will simplify that question. The morphia could have been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added to the tea?”

  “Certainly.”

  “There was no special evidence that the morphia was in the fish paste rather than in any of the other mediums?”

  “No.”

  “And, in fact, the morphia might have been taken separately—that is to say, not in any vehicle at all? It could have been simply swallowed in its tablet form?”

  “That is so, of course.”

  “Sir Edwin sat down.

  Sir Samuel re-examined.

  “Nevertheless, you are of the opinion that, however the morphia was taken, it was taken at the same time as the other food and drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  IV

  Inspector Brill had taken the oath with mechanical fluency. He stood there, soldierly and stolid, reeling off his evidence with practised ease.

  “Summoned to the house… The accused said, ‘It must have been bad fish paste.’…search of the premises…one jar of fish paste washed out was standing on the draining board in the pantry, another half full…further search of pantry kitchen….”

  “What did you find?”

  “In a crack behind the table, between the floorboards, I found a tiny scrap of paper.”

  The exhibit went to the jury.

  “What did you take it to be?”

  “A fragment torn off a printed label—such as are used on glass tubes of morphia.”

  Counsel for the Defence arose with leisurely ease.

  He said:

  “You found this scrap in a crack in the flooring?”

  “Yes.”

  “Part of a label?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find the rest of that label?”

  “No.”

  “You did not find any glass tube or any bottle to which that label might have been affixed?”

  “No.”

  “What was the state of that scrap of paper when you found it? Was it clean or dirty?”

  “It was quite fresh.”

  “What do you mean, quite fresh?”

  “There was surface dust on it from the flooring, but it was quite clean othe
rwise.”

  “It could not have been there for any length of time?”

  “No, it had found its way there quite recently.”

  “You would say, then, that it had come there on the actual day you found it—not earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  With a grunt Sir Edwin sat down.

  V

  Nurse Hopkins in the box, her face red and self-righteous.

  All the same, Elinor thought, Nurse Hopkins was not so frightening as Inspector Brill. It was the inhumanity of Inspector Brill that was so paralysing. He was so definitely part of a great machine. Nurse Hopkins had human passions, prejudices.

  “Your name is Jessie Hopkins?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are a certificated District Nurse and you reside at Rose Cottage, Hunterbury?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you on the 28th of June last?”

  “I was at Hunterbury Hall.”

  “You had been sent for?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Welman had had a stroke—the second. I went to assist Nurse O’Brien until a second nurse could be found.”

  “Did you take a small attaché case with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the jury what was in it.”

  “Bandages, dressings, a hypodermic syringe and certain drugs, including a tube of morphine hydrochloride.”

  “For what purpose was it there?”

  “One of the cases in the village had to have hypodermic injections of morphia morning and evening.”

  “What were the contents of the tube?”

  “There were twenty tablets, each containing half grain morphine hydrochloride.”

  “What did you do with your attaché case?”

  “I laid it down in the hall.”

  “That was on the evening of the 28th. When did you next have occasion to look in the case?”